


Not Alone

by rainstormdragon



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Jonathan Sims, CANON BI CHARACTER, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Queer Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, I just want them to be happy together, Jon has no middle gears, Jon is hot when he's angry, Jon just wants everyone to be safe, Kissing, M/M, Martin just wants Jon to wreck him, Panic Attacks, Pining, Relationship Negotiation, Tenderness, The Lonely - Freeform, Touch-Starved, i don't make the rules, season 4, season 4 fix-it, that is not how you ask someone out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24088843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainstormdragon/pseuds/rainstormdragon
Summary: Season 4 Fix-It. Martin is drawn to Jon's office by the sound of his voice. Jon works out what is happening and refuses to let The Lonely claim him. This is basically fluff and comfort and catharsis for both of them.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 21
Kudos: 312





	Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> First thing I've published on this platform and in this fandom. Feedback is appreciated!

Sasha had once asked Martin why he bothered bringing Jon tea, and he had improvised something on the spot about how Jon would never think to leave his work and get some himself, and from then on, that had been his official excuse to himself as well. 

It was his voice, of course. That low, expressive, passionate way he would narrate the statements. Martin loved hearing it. It was worth stopping by his office once or twice a day for the chance to catch a few sentences, crisp, beautifully enunciated, the sort of voice that made Martin wish … just  _ made him wish _ , that was all. And more and more lately, there was something new in its timbre, an undercurrent that registered as static on the tapes but to the listening ear, was like a chord that resonated deep in the pit of your stomach and the marrow of your bones and drew you in. 

Right, so he was supposed to be working for Peter Lukas now. Avoiding the others, standing between them and whatever awful ritual the Extinction was planning. 

Martin had tried to stay away. He did. But the acoustics of the Institute had a mind of their own at times, and he’d come out of his office to refile some statements when Jon’s voice drifted up to him through a vent. Only a couple words, just at the edge of his hearing, but they penetrated the cold, distant Loneliness that had been building around him for days, and Martin paused in his motions, gripping a manila folder so tightly that it almost cut into his hands. 

It had been days since he’d spoken to anyone, longer since he’d even brushed hands with a coworker, even the slightest passing touch. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to just … listen a bit? Jon wasn’t speaking to Martin, not like a conversation or real human contact, so surely it would be allowed? He made himself refile the statements properly, then walked to Jon’s office. 

He’d always been one of those men who could move surprisingly quietly, despite his size. It had made Jon jump a bit, at the beginning, and after that, he’d always taken care to be a bit extra clumsy around him, make a bit more noise with his presence, so as not to be creepy. This time, he made none of those efforts. Was it his imagination, or did the haze of the Lonely that was beginning to surround him muffle his soft steps even more? 

He leaned soundlessly against the wall outside Jon’s office. Even through the closed door, the Archivist’s voice was audible, a rise and fall of sound that shivered in Martin’s chest like cello music and spread hot, slow tingles that crept lower. 

This was pathetic. He was pathetic. 

But he was so cold. And Jon’s voice was like heat, the warmth of another person, tangled fears and emotions and spilled secrets pouring over him. Martin closed his eyes and imagined the way Jon’s eyes got when reading a statement, distant and mirrorlike. His hands turning a page, long-fingered and precise. Martin pictured Jon’s shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the slender, wiry muscle of his forearms. His throat moving as he spoke, dark skinned and stubbled. His lips shaping the words. 

_ God, thirsty much? _ He reproached himself as he felt himself growing hard in his trousers. He should go, get out before Melanie or Basira passed and found him lurking outside their boss’s office with a hard on like a proper pervert, without even the excuse of a cup of tea, but …

He was so cold. 

“ … statement ends.” Suddenly something in the air shifted. The hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stood up and, in a way that he couldn’t entirely put into words, he knew he was caught, Seen, even though the hall was empty and the office door shut. “Come in, Martin,” Jon said, with the hint of tiredness and strain in his voice that always revealed itself when he was being just Jon and not putting voice to someone else’s nightmares. 

_ Shit, _ Martin thought, took a bracing gulp of air, and opened the door, hoping his ears and neck weren’t red, hoping Jon’s gaze would not wander below his waist before his semi erection subsided.  _ This is normal, this is normal, everything is normal. _

“Hello. I was just on my way to the canteen, if you wanted a cup--” he began, infusing his voice with a false lightness,  _ just dull old Martin offering tea, nothing to see here. _

“Perhaps later. I’ve been wanting to speak to you,” Jon said, his voice sounding softer than usual, almost concerned. No, it couldn’t be concern. Probably just pain. From what Basira had said, he’d been supposed to still be at home recovering this past week or more. The circles under his eyes were deep, and he looked like he’d been wearing his clothes for several days on end. Somehow, this did nothing to blunt the edge of his attraction. It made Martin want to care for him, to pull him close and soothe him with gentle words and caresses until Jon slept in his arms. Not that Jon would ever want that sort of nonsense. 

“I’m a bit busy,” Martin lied, the words practiced by now. “Maybe another time?”

**“Martin, are you all right?”**

_ Perfectly well, just busy, you know how it is, eldritch abominations to document,  _ Martin tried to say, but it was like something in Jon’s voice pulled a deeper answer from his gut, pushing the false words aside, even as he grew colder with fear at his own loss of control. 

“I’m devastated from losing Tim and Sasha and nearly losing you. I’m stressed out from avoiding everyone else. I’m so lonely it hurts, though that’s the point, isn’t it, getting far enough into the Lonely that Lukas’s plans will work or at least his attention will be off the rest of you, because if this is a trick, better it be me. It’s not like I was ever the important one or the brave one or the smart one. And I’m quite angry at your using your -- Asking thing -- on me, because those feelings are personal, thanks, and being an avatar is no excuse not to allow me the privacy of my own mind!” Martin gritted his teeth, managing to stop the flow of words before he added that he was also aroused and guilty and who knew what else. 

“Oh.” Jon sounded startled. Martin refused to look at him. “Oh. Martin, I … I’m profoundly sorry. It’s not … that was not intentional.”

Martin just sank into a chair, ran a hand over his face and through his hair. 

“But I hope you know that you are important. To all of us. To me. I realize I’m not one who has any room to talk about taking inadvisable risks, or getting too close to the entities, but … it’s not worth it. Not even for someone like me. Especially not for someone like you.”

“What’s that mean, then, someone like me?” Martin asked a bit indignantly.

Jon chuckled. It was a dusty, hollow sound that made Martin remember Melanie’s words to them when he’d come back:  _ he’s not quite human, not anymore _ . “Someone kind.”

The gaping void in his chest ached. Kind. Was he? What meaning did that word have, when everyone was so far away? Even Jon, right there, but so far away. He shivered convulsively. Another shiver overtook him, another, until his teeth were chattering in his mouth. 

“Martin. Martin?” John had stood, was coming around his desk. As if through a haze, Martin could see his intent eyes, the sharp angles of his face, could feel, as though from a long way away, the warmth of a hand on his arm. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, like the roar of the ocean, and felt invisible tides pulling him away from everyone and everything to a place where it was cold and distant and no one could see him or feel him or touch him, a place he’d once feared but that had a strange safety to it … 

**“Martin, I see you. I’m here. Come back to me.”** Jon’s voice cut through the fog and distance like a knife, like fire, melting it away. The air in Martin’s lungs, thick and slow, rushed out, and he gasped in oxygen. Jon’s hand was gripping his arm almost hard enough to bruise. It felt good, anchoring. Martin’s hand found his and mindlessly clutched it, pressing it even tighter. **“What do you need?”** Jon demanded like the beautiful, awful invasion of privacy he was, and Martin didn’t even care, wanted it, wanted to be invaded, if only not to be alone. The words poured out. 

“I need you to touch me and talk to me and see me and not let me be alone in the cold. I need, God, I need to be held. I need to feel another human being. I need to feel.” Martin’s voice was like a sob in his throat. 

“Martin…” Jon sounded hesitant, unsure. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll go,” he said, the words automatic, the apologies for his own existence, his needs, as easy and familiar as breathing, even in his current state of shock.

“No, Martin.”

He tried to stand, but Jon was in the way somehow, the smaller man still holding his arm with surprising strength, facing him as Martin struggled to his feet. So awkwardly and stiffly that Martin didn’t realize what he was doing at first, Jon... 

Jon put his arms around him.

“Jon? What- what are you doing?”

“You said you needed to be held, to feel another human being. As there are no other human beings available here, I’m afraid you’re going to have to settle for me.”

“You’re … hugging me?” Martin reached up a shaking hand, lightly touched Jon’s back, tight-strung tendons and sweat-damp, wrinkled cotton shirt. 

“It’s not a very good hug, is it?” Jon asked ruefully. 

“S’lovely,” Martin whispered, his own arms coming around Jon and tightening. He bowed his head until his mouth was pressed against the place where Jon’s hairline met his brow. Clung to him. Warm. Real. “Perfect.”

“You said … talk to you?” He sounded uncertain but determined. Martin nodded. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to say.” Martin only shrugged in response, barely even hearing him. All his awareness was on the feeling of Jon in his arms. “I feel … this isn’t my area. What do I say?”

“Mmm. Don’t know. Even just this is good. Helping.” God, how long since he’d been held, just really held? A couple years? More?

“Come with me.” Jon ended the hug gently. It was almost a physical ache, letting go of him, but Martin did, letting the archivist guide him out of the office with smaller, gentle touches -- a hand on his back or shoulder, a soft word to guide him along when he faltered. Jon led him to the mostly unused storage rooms where Martin had slept during the time he had stayed at the Institute, to the cot that still had one of his mugs sitting on a crate beside it, the tea in it long dried to a faint residue of loose leaves at the bottom. Martin sat on the cot, and then glanced at Jon in confusion as the other man removed his shoes and lay down. 

“What are you doing?”

“Come here. Lie down, facing me.”

It all felt a bit surreal. Martin obeyed, closing his eyes because it was less awkward. 

His breath caught when Jon touched his face. It was tentative, and painstakingly gentle. Jon’s fingertips traced the line of his jaw, the slightly crooked arch of his brow, skimmed over his eyelashes in a caress that Martin could barely feel but that somehow made tears well up behind his eyes again with its tenderness. He melted into the touch as Jon learned the shapes of his cheekbones, the slope of his forehead. A gentle stroke to his hair that ended in a moment of those precise, elegant fingers skimming over the sensitive spot at the nape of his neck. Martin drew in a shaking breath. Jon brushed the backs of his fingers over the shell of his ear, the pulse point in his throat. Faltered as he felt Martin’s heart racing.

“Tell me if you want me to stop. If this isn’t what you need,” Jon commanded softly, insistently, and even with his eyes shut, Martin could feel his penetrating gaze, drinking in every detail of his reactions. A part of him wanted to ask Jon to stop, wanted to hide from those dark, knowing eyes for a moment, but he could no more resist this than he could stop breathing. 

He shook his head mutely and rubbed his cheek against Jon’s hand, silently asking for more. With increasing confidence, the archivist mapped the contours of Martin’s face, hair, and neck with the most exquisite of touches. Martin basked in Jon’s attention like the sun, soaking in the heat and life of his gaze. When Jon’s fingers touched his lips, they parted for him without thought, but he only carefully traced over them, once and then again, more slowly, sending another hot curl of arousal down into Martin’s stomach that made him shudder and open his eyes.

Jon was right there, only inches away, closer than Martin had realized. He swallowed hard. Jon met his gaze, and he had not known it was possible to feel so safe and so vulnerable at the same time. He looked into their dark depths and saw uncertainty mingled with tenderness.

“You--?” Jon laid his fingers on Martin’s cheek, gently cradling his face. “Yes?”

“God, yes,” Martin breathed, and closed the distance between them to brush Jon’s lips with his own. Jon sighed softly into the kiss. His mouth was slow and careful and perfect, and Martin tried to bank his desperate hunger and match the other man’s leisurely pace. He needed more contact. He reached up, laid a hand flat over Jon’s heart. When Jon did not object but continued to kiss him with that sweet, single minded intensity, he dared to thread the fingers of his other hand into Jon’s hair. 

How many times had he wanted to do this, fantasized about doing this, since they had started working together? How many times had he lain in this same cot and imagined what it would be like if Jon somehow wanted him? It had been his impossible fantasy. Pretty much peak impossible fantasy material, really: the affection of the prickly, uptight boss who barely tolerated his presence. It was easier to want the things he couldn’t actually have, because you didn’t have to worry about what to do if you got them. 

Yet here he was, and Jon was kissing him like he was precious -- like he was important -- like he was something desirable and worth savoring. The reality of it staggered him, dragged soft, desperate sounds from his throat. Jon’s arm was wrapped around him now, tracing small circles between his shoulder blades.  _ Comforting _ him. When they finally broke from each other’s mouths, Martin dared to pull the other man closer into a full embrace. He breathed in the scent of him, warm skin and black tea and stale sweat. Everything about him was lean and spare, as if sheer nervous energy had burned away all but what was needed to survive. He felt Jon slowly, uncertainly relaxing against him, as if he had to remember how. Jon’s breathing was slightly unsteady, and Martin felt a little thrill at the realization that kissing him had put that little catch in his breath. 

He had not felt safe in… God, months, but this, here, was a little pocket of something like safety. Martin felt as if he were soaking in something vital through the contact of their bodies and he could not get enough of it. Jon’s body fit so perfectly against his. Unable to be completely still, even now, Jon reached up to play with Martin’s hair. He ran his fingers through the short curls, occasionally drawing his fingernails lightly over the scalp. It was blissful. Martin felt like he might melt through the mattress then and there. He let himself drift in a haze of endorphins. 

When they finally did untangle themselves and get up, nearly an hour later, there was a visible flush on both of their cheeks and they stole furtive glances at each other. Martin swallowed hard and spoke first. 

“Thank you, for … I’m sorry I broke down like that. I thought I could do this, for everyone … “

“You were already touch-starved when Peter Lukas first met you. That’s partly why he chose you. You’d lost Tim, Sasha, your mother…” Jon blinked and shook his head slightly, as if he hadn’t meant to See that. “I didn’t know your mother had died, Martin. I’m sorry.” 

Martin shrugged, glanced away. “We weren’t close,” he muttered, which was neither a lie nor the truth. 

“Still.” Jon touched his hand lightly. He looked up at Jon, whose jaw was set determinedly. “I’ll be having a talk with Lukas. You are neither a tool for him to use nor a victim for him to feed on _. _ ”

“He gave me the choice, Jon,” Martin said stubbornly. 

“Martin, **do you want to go along with this plan of his?”** Jon demanded, his voice vibrating with an undertone of power. 

“Not if the alternative is being with you,” Martin blurted out before he could think, then covered his face with both hands. “Christ, Jon, will you stop doing that?”

“It was important that you answer me honestly,” the archivist said unrepentantly, and then he felt those surprisingly gentle hands take his own and pull them away from his face. “Really, with me?”

Martin shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. Look, it’s a crush, all right? I don’t want you to feel like now you need to … I dunno, start something between us, to keep me from doing this.”

He heard Jon inhale deeply then let out a breath, slow and measured. “It wouldn’t be fair to you. There’s a power imbalance between us. And … and even if I were your first choice, you could do a lot better. You deserve a partner who would appreciate you properly. Someone pleasant. Affectionate. I’m not an easy person to be with.”

“Yeah, well, I’m aware I have rubbish taste in men,” Martin said dryly, then the meaning of Jon’s words caught up with him. “Wait, you’re saying that you--”

“That I would consider being with you, even if we were not both so tied to the horrors of the Institute that I was merely your alternative to being alone? Yes. Yes, I would. I’m not entirely sure that the mere fact that you have so few other options isn’t me taking advantage.” Jon steepled his fingers, brooding. 

“... Is this meant to be your way of asking me out?” Martin ventured. “Because you’re meant to actually ask, you know, not just assume I’m a sure thing and nobly attempt to talk me out of it. And when I say ask,” he added quickly, holding up a hand before Jon could speak, “I mean just ask, not  _ Ask _ ask.”

“You like it when I  _ Ask  _ ask,” Jon said, meeting his eyes. Martin felt his ears burn and the blush creep over his neck. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah, well, I like a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean I want you just doing them without my consent first, all right?”

“Of course. It’s … private, and people have boundaries. I don’t like how often I tend to forget that these days,” Jon said softly, looking frustrated, and ran a hand through his hair before looking up at Martin again. “It’s entirely possible I am more of a disaster than I was when I was entirely human. Nevertheless, would you like to be in a relationship with me, Martin?” His lips twitched with self-deprecating humor.

“Yes.” Martin leaned forward, telegraphing the impending kiss with his eyes and body so that Jon’s eyelids lowered and he tilted his head into it. It was a soft kiss, both men conscious of the newness of this fragile thing between them. 

“While we’re speaking of boundaries,” Jon said after several more heart-meltingly gentle kisses, his hand still resting on Martin’s neck, “I should confess to you that my own boundaries about physical intimacy can be complicated sometimes.”

“All right,” Martin said encouragingly, waiting for more. 

“I’m not always comfortable with sex, even in a relationship,” Jon explained, his voice going slightly more formal and his shoulders tensing slightly. “I understand if that is a deal breaker for you. It often is, with men, which is why I’ve tended to mostly date women.”

“I’ll want more details on that, so I know what you do and don’t want to do,” Martin said, considering this. “Can we agree to have that conversation, and that I can talk with you about things I like without you assuming that I expect those things or that I’ll be upset with you if you’re not comfortable doing them?”

“I think I can manage that.” Jon’s shoulders lowered a fraction, and his fingers resumed drawing idle patterns along the line of Martin’s neck. 

Martin arched into the touch without a thought, shivering slightly, then caught Jon’s hand, and lightly kissed the knuckles before he could become too distracted. 

“I don’t want to go back to my new office,” he said softly, changing the subject. “It’s so far. From everyone. I just … fade away in there. That was the idea, I think.”

“Then you won’t go back. You’re demoted back to archival assistant as of right now. I need you to return to work in your old capacity. Any research Lukas wants you to do will go through me from now on.”

“Can you do that? Demote me from a position Lukas put me in?” Martin asked uncertainly. 

Jon’s scowled. “Technically... no. And if I move you back to work under me now that we’re together, I’ll be committing an ethics violation.”

“I’ll be all right, Jon.” 

Jon rose to his feet and paced for a few moments, looking progressively more frustrated.

“It’s preposterous. Our contracts did not stipulate being bound to the Institute for life. We’re expected to endure monthly attacks by entities that want to infest us with worms or steal our identity or imbue us with inhuman powers against our will. If our relationship is an HR violation, it’s one they’ll have to live with. Chain of command, company policy and workplace ethics stopped applying to our situation a long time ago. **I** **am the Archivist now** , and I am a deeper part of this Institute than Peter Lukas could ever be,” Jon growled. “If he wants to contradict me over where you work or try to write us up because we’ve stolen a single scrap of joy for ourselves in this twisted place, **he can just try it**.”

He reached out and gripped Martin’s shoulder.  **“I will feed him to a Leitner myself before I see him pull you or anyone else into The Lonely.”** Martin swallowed hard and did not voice any of the many, many workplace ethics violations that Jon’s fierce protectiveness made him want to commit. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said instead, meeting Jon’s eyes. “Not anymore.”


End file.
